Sweet Moments in Life

May I have the pleasure of introducing you to three special people in my life...

Tate
Tate (grandmother in Swahili) is an ancient woman who is also a fistula patient. Her body has been weakened and emaciated by years of suffering and hard labor, but she is a dear person. Even when people steal her little bag of soap while she does other chores, she does not display bitterness.
The day that Chelsie and I returned from Rwanda after the attacks in and around Goma in late October, the first thing we did was to visit the women at the transit center at the HEAL hospital. They laughed and danced, celebrating that we were back, that we had not abandoned them. We played ball with some of the younger, louder women; talked with the children about school and how they felt when they were hiding under their beds listening to the gunshots; we joked with the older women about life and the process of existing. We also made the rounds to the post-op rooms for fistula patients, where Tate was recovering. As we were catching with up with Tate and getting to know the newer patients, Tate reached over and started playing with my hair. The other women gasped at her audacity to touch a white person’s hair. She glared at them with daring eyes and told them in a stern voice, “I’m her grandmother. She is one of us.” Then she turned to me and informed me, “I’m going to braid your hair. Sit on the ground.” Obediently, I eased myself in between the two plastic-encased mattresses on their simple, chipped aluminum bed frames, trying not to wonder when was the last time they were cleaned. Calmly, with wrinkled hands and decades of experience, Tate proceeded to braid my hair. The rest of the women sat comfortably around us, another barrier being broken forever between us. Although my braid looked beautiful, my spirit was lifted by this undeserved grandmother’s love.

Cristina
About a week ago, I was visiting some of the mamas in their living quarters. This particular day, I happened to be teaching them how to use my camera, and they were giggling hysterically at the pictures they were capturing. One of the young fistula patients walked into the room and when she saw me, she urged me to come and see something. The Mama took her newborn from her friend’s arms and put the baby in my arms. “Majina yako!” she exclaimed. Surprised, I asked, “you named her Cristina?” She nodded proudly as I held this beautiful little baby; my heart warmed all over as the infant stared deep into my eyes. The mother grabbed my camera and took this picture of my namesake.

Helena (Evira)
Helena you already know… she has received a few name changes since the time we met her in the middle of the road in Masisi, unable to walk and stiff to stretch her legs. She has now been at the handicap center, through the support of HEAL Africa’s “Children Like Us” program for children with disabilities. As she has been receiving nutrition, physical therapy, play therapy and care, she has gained much strength. The doctors estimate that in two or three more months, Helena will be walking completely on her own. Her mother beams with joy and pride as she describes how little Helena now sits like a normal person on a chair, how she can lift herself up, and how she has even started walking on her own if she can lean on a wall. Helena herself shines as she exhausts herself in her efforts to show me that she can even jump if I am walking with her! Yes, Helena will walk.

Minova Refugee Camp, Eye Stings and Water

Yesterday we went to a brand new refugee camp that sprung up in Minova, right past Sake, about 10 KM away from Goma. We have a team of aid workers from Samaritan’s purse, namely surgeons and water treatment specialists. They were quick to respond to the vast needs here in North Kivu and invited Chelsie and I to help them set up a training session and distribution of water purifying materials. Cholera is quickly becoming a severe problem, and can kill many people simply because they cannot access clean water.
We bumped over the rain washed dirt roads that my body seems to never get used to. As we turned yet another hill next to beautiful forests and bright lakes, out in the middle of nowhere, we came upon the new Minova camp. This refugee camp houses 1,800 people, families from many different tribes, all shoved in in one faraway place out of reach of commerce and food. Their makeshift shelters lacked the UNICEF tarps, showing the camp’s newness, and how little help they had received since their recent flight.
Robinson, the Kenyan water technician, asked for the people to bring them the water that they usually drink. The men came back with a bucket full of muck. It is difficult for it to not seem like I am exaggerating, but truly, this water was dirtier than anything, like water you would be hesitant to wade in, like shallow, slightly stagnant sides of soft mud. The dirt particles, bacteria and mitochondria hung and waved lightly in the pail. We asked if they boiled the water before they drank it, at which they responded, “Rarely, because firewood is difficult to find, and it is rainy season right now. But this water does make our stomachs feel funny.” Samaritan’s Purse was happy to begin training some of the team leaders.
In the meantime, we roped off an area for working in, and the rest of us began separating pails in pairs, with stir sticks, a cloth to drain the clean water in, clothespins for securing them and PUR water purifying packets. Hundreds of people stared at us and then started laughing and joking with us as they realized we spoke Swahili. So many questions, so many proposals!
Out of nowhere, a misfortune for me: a random bug flew into my eye and stung my eyeball. I was told there is a bug that likes to sting people’s eyes and aims for them in their flight. And here I had been nervous about my feet and the huge spiders and bugs of all kinds crawling and hopping around in the bush! My eye has gotten quite swollen and red and constantly tears in pain; I’m also allergic to the bite, and the sting’s poison has spread out past my forehead and down past my nose. I’ve sneezed more times today than any other day of my life!
Back to the story. We finally set up 300 water purifying kits and people were being grouped in teams of six to share the kits, as it would give them enough clean water for 4 days. The results showed a sparkling clean glass of water after 20 minutes. We all tasted its refreshing coolness. Suddenly, it started raining. People got desperate and started pressing. The men guarding the twine barriers got nervous and began swinging sticks to warn people to stay away. We stood in the middle, trying to guard the kits as the mob began throbbing. Pressing in, pushed out. Tempers flared in a moment, rain came down faster and suddenly, they were all gone. The people ran for buckets and escaped as quickly as they could. Men with sticks chasing pregnant women. Children stealing stir sticks, having no idea how to use them. All this work, so close, and they will still have no clean water to drink. Desperation. How many children will die today because starving, thirsty refugees could not retain their anxiety, their fear that maybe they would be left out?

What about Galula's Sisters?

Gulula is 6 years old and has two brothers and two sisters. The innocent little girls were playing together in their home last week when, in a moment, their lives were altered forever. They found a grenade in their yard, and thinking it was a toy, they played with it until the grenade exploded in their faces. The two oldest have severely burned their faces and arms; Gulula’s eyes were burned, and the scars on her face will change her look forever. Although the mother showed up immediately with all three girls, by the time we were able to visit them at HEAL Africa this week, only Gulula remained at the hospital.


Between two hospital cots in the crowded post-operating room, she sat shyly hugging her knees, motionless. The stiff, fluid-hardened gauze clung to her face like a cast, rendering her expressionless. Many attempts at connecting with her finally earned me her little, scarred hand, which she allowed me to hold as we talked with her mother. Annifa, the HEALing Arts manager, asked the woman where the Gulula’s sisters were. The mother looked down, ashamed, and whispered in a sunken voice, “We can only afford to pay for one of our daughters to have medical treatment, so we had to send the older girls home.” We asked what the rates were, at which she responded the insurmountable amount per girl, $5 per day. Stunned, I thought about what $5 per day meant to most of us in the developed world and my heart was suffocated even further. I looked into Gulula’s soft eyes through the blood-stained gauze and almost wept before them in the crowded, smelly room full of suffering victims.


Gently, we explained to the mother that HEALing Arts had an Emergency Fund that would pay the cost for her other two girls to receive treatment for their burns immediately. I also explained that HEALing Arts has a school where her girls can continue studying as they heal, and that she can learn to sew at our Sewing and Weaving School. The mother could hardly believe all we were telling her, but her smile was big and her handshake was strong as we said good-bye.